


Bloody Hands of the Hypnotized

by Rowena_Hill



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-10-27 04:00:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10801257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rowena_Hill/pseuds/Rowena_Hill
Summary: The harder Hermione Granger looked, the more the lines between black and white and crimson and green began to fade. The harder she looked, the more she realized that Draco Malfoy was just as lost as she was. As he becomes more withdrawn, she finds herself gravitating towards him, both of them sinking further down into this colorless world. *AU Beginning in Year 6*





	1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I, in no way, shape, or form own Harry Potter. That honor belongs to J.K. Rowling. I just like taking the characters out for a spin.

I'm going to leave a blanket warning here. This will be a dark story. There will be blood and torture, sex and language, all the things. Take everything you know about canon from HBP on and strap it to a rocket launcher. This story is AU and EWE. There will be some OCCness, as would be expected in a story like this.

Ye be warned.

*

Suggested Listening: The Devil's Playground by The Rigs

*

Book I

August 3, 1996

It all started with Diagon Alley, maybe it would end with it, too.

There was something oddly final about standing there, the cobblestones pressing roughly against the soles of her worn trainers. It was the desolation, she decided, the desolation and the abnormally cold August air. Gone was the Dickensian color that had greeted her as a bright-eyed eleven-year-old. Now every available surface was plastered with Ministry propaganda and wanted posters. Gone was the bustle of witches and wizards as they went about their days, in their place were quiet clusters of people scurrying from shop to shop in an effort to avoid the seedy owners of questionable stalls that had crept out of the woodwork. There was no laughter, no shouts from vendors, even the owls of the menagerie were quiet in their now warded cages. Maybe this was the real Diagon Alley, the real Dickensian world that she’d imagined, the gray that had tainted the edges finally infecting it all to show to truth. Somehow, it wouldn’t have surprised her.

Hands curled into fists at her sides, Hermione made herself move. The cold bit at her skin and not for the first time did she lament the fact that it was still a month until she could perform magic outside of school. A part of her was more than happy to argue that it was possible that her Time Turner use had aged her, making that ban null for her. She, however, chose to err on the side of caution. Flourish and Blotts would be warm, she told herself though it seemed to afford her little comfort.

Glass crunched beneath her shoes and she jerked her foot up in reaction. Her soles were worn, true enough, but they still seemed strong enough to keep the shard from piercing through. Brushing the glass away on the edge of the pavement, she found herself looking around to see just where it had come from. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she stared up at what was left of Ollivander’s and she was acutely aware of her vinewood wand pressing into her side. 

“Why?” she whispered to herself as she wrapped her arms around her middle. It made no sense. Why destroy the wandmaker’s shop? Rumor had it the old man was missing. So many were missing now and it made her shiver.

The feeling of a hand on her elbow made her jump and she quickly turned only to look up into Harry’s bright green eyes. His mouth was set into a grim line and she could feel her own brows knit together in her ever growing confusion. If there was one thing that irked her it was being confused. She needed to know everything that there was to know; it was almost a compulsion. 

“Come on, Mione,” he said as he gently pulled her along. 

It was all she could do to just nod and follow.

*  
Her sock covered feet curled into the worn carpet of the changing room floor. Buying new clothes was a necessary evil, as was looking herself over in a mirror. As it was, both were inevitable. A pile of dress robes had quickly grown behind her and she was certain that she’d tried on every shade of red that Madam Malkin had to offer. None of them suited her. They were too bright, too garish, too...Gryffindor. The fact that even her clothing choices seemed to be governed by House affiliation irritated her to no end- especially when she was really quite fond of green.

Not wanting to even think about the ensuing arguments that would arise from that color selection, she stripped the latest red frock from her body and added it to the pile. She felt foolish standing there in her plain cotton undergarments with her socks sliding down her calves. It occurred to her then that she was holding on to her own childishness, even in something as mundane as plain white knickers. They didn’t seem to fit, not in the abstract sense of the world. Wasn’t she supposed to be branching out into patterns and silk by now, she wondered. She was almost seventeen, but she felt so much older and she couldn’t decide if that was a fact that she hated or not.

Speaking of hate. Her attention returned itself to her reflection in the mirror and she felt her mouth pull itself into a frown. If she had ever wanted to wear a bikini, which she wasn’t inclined to, the opportunity had been shot. A glamour would have worked to cover up the bluish purple scar that crossed her torso like a fissure, but a glamour required effort to maintain and she had other things to concern herself with. 

Pulling the next dress off the rack, she found herself standing there with satin clutched in her hands as a thought occurred to her. Clothes had always been a way to hide. Baggy shirts and blue jeans, frumpy skirts. In its own way, clothing was armor, and she had used it well. Now she had something more to hide, the trouble with that was that this was something that now defined her, ugly as it was. She had survived the Department of Mysteries by a hair’s breath. Of course, she would hide it, she wasn’t an exhibitionist, but that didn’t mean that her armor had to stay the same. 

The purple satin was so dark that it was almost black, and she found that she quite liked the contrast it made with her pale skin. It was decidedly the most witch like dress she’d ever tried, all the others having clearly Muggle influences. This was high necked and made her look older, matching her mind rather than just her body. Of course, a dress like this would come with connotations of its own. Somehow a dark dress indicated a dark witch and that thought alone was enough to make her roll her eyes. Hermione Granger was going to wear what she bloody well wanted to.

She slipped the dress off her shoulders and hung it back on its rack, the other dresses filing themselves away as she changed back into her jeans and practical cardigan. Tugging her hair from her collar, she let out a sigh and slipped on her trainers. Armor, she told herself. It was still armor.

Of course, by the time she stepped out of the dressing room, all hell was about to break loose. For a moment she just stood there with her dress over her arms and contemplated just turning around and sitting down until the inevitable storm had passed. But, that was decidedly not an option- especially when Ron and Harry were glaring daggers at Draco Malfoy.

*

“Ah. So there’s the little Mudblood. Still on her leash after all,” Malfoy drawled as he stared back at her in the dressing mirror’s reflection. His voice had gotten deeper, she noticed, and even if he hadn’t been perched on the dressmaker’s pedestal she was certain that he would have been able to look Ron square in the eye.

Madam Malkin balked, the harried witch scurrying around the young scion with silver pins and a tape measure in her wake, and she absolutely insisted that language like that would not be tolerated in her shop.

Hermione just sighed and handed her garment over to an assistant to wrap up. The word once had an effect on her, enough to make tears prick the corners of her eyes and her shuffle her feet. Now it was just a word that rolled off her back like water. It was funny how a battle can change things, she mused. Nevertheless, that didn’t stop Ron and Harry from drawing their wands right then and there. If only, she thought, there was something she could lob at their respective heads.

“Stop it. It’s not worth it, honestly,” she said as she put her hand over Harry’s arm and gently pushed it down. If he backed down, then Ron would follow. The look she gave him was just added incentive. “Enough shops have been damaged over stupidity.”

Malfoy regarded her, his eyes cold and face oddly neutral. “You wouldn’t dare do magic out of school, Potter. Besides, Granger told you no.”

There was a very small part of her that wanted to laugh, but she managed to bury down the feeling.

The shop’s proprietor was close to having a conniption, Hermione was sure of it, by the time she asked for Lady Malfoy to interfere with the situation before it escalated.

It struck her just how much Narcissa Malfoy resembled her deranged sister and she found herself staring at the older woman with furrowed brows. Where Bellatrix was all dark and sallow, Narcissa looked as though she was light personified. It was such a shame that that light was dampened by elitist ideals and an arrogant expression. Still, she was quite beautiful.

“Put those away. I will not have you threatening my son again,” she said, her voice cold and carefully controlled. There was truth in that statement and Hermione was sure that this woman in front of her would protect her only child with everything that she had.

Of course, that was the wrong thing to say to Harry Potter and she made herself resist the urge to slap a hand over her face. One day they’d be able to shop without the threats of wandfights. One day.

“Harry,” she began, only to be cut off by the boy in question.

“Again? I hadn’t even started. What are you going to do? Have some of your Death Eater’s swoop in and finish me off for defending my friend from your precious little boy?” he asked through gritted teeth. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose then.

There was a subtle change in Narcissa Malfoy’s countenance at the mention of Voldemort’s faithful. The woman covered herself beautifully and that flash of fear that Hermione saw in her eyes faded into a cold, even stare. She looked over at Draco then, his gray eyes locked with hers. There was a change in this family, she realized, and she knew full well that it was the result of Lucius Malfoy’s actions in the Department of Mysteries. Something was wrong, very wrong, to leave these two people carrying themselves as though they were animals who weren’t caged, even when the bars were closing in around them.

A small smile curled over Lady Malfoy’s lips as she stared at the boy who matched her in height. “Enjoy that sense of security, false as it may be, Harry Potter,” she said as she plucked an invisible piece of dirt from the folds of her expensive dress. “Dumbledore will not be able to protect you forever.”

She made herself swallow a groan. The ability the Malfoys had for antagonizing Harry Potter was nothing short of astounding. And, of course, he played right into it, much to her chagrin. That left her stuck standing there watching the ensuing verbal sparring match with growing anxiety, especially since Harry’s wand arm kept rising higher and higher which caused her to grip it tightly and tug it back down again. 

Pressing her fingertips against her temple, she began to rub them in slow circles in an effort to alleviate the headache she found herself developing. When she looked up again Draco was still staring at her, his eyes boring into her as she stood there. There was something in his gaze that she couldn’t quite seem to put her finger on, and it both unnerved her and piqued her curiosity. Merlin, what she wouldn’t give to be able to read his mind, she thought then.

Malfoy let out a sudden hiss as one of Madam Malkin’s pins pricked his arm and Hermione found herself pulled from her musings. In a frustrated huff, he pulled the robes off and flung them carelessly on the floor before stepping over them as though they were something repugnant. It was melodramatic and she hated that he thought it was perfectly alright to leave a mess in his wake. But her thoughts didn’t stop him from stalking out of the shop, Lady Malfoy on his heels, his shoulders squared and his mouth pressed into a hard line. Hermione, much to her own confusion, found herself watching him until he was out of sight.

*

Whether or not Weasley’s Wizards Wheezes was something that the wizarding world needed, or was just a very large assault on the eyes, she wasn’t sure. Somehow the overabundance of color and light that spilled out onto the gray thoroughfare seemed to be too much for her to properly process. The noise that encapsulated her once she was inside did nothing to help her headache, either.

Harry and Ron had been immediately lost among the fray, not that it really surprised her. If anything it was better than having to deal with them while agitated towards Draco Malfoy. Perhaps this was the welcome reprieve they all needed. So, she carefully made her way through the maze of displays and the Hogwarts students that were crammed around them. The sight of Skiving Snackboxes made her nose wrinkle and she couldn’t help but sigh as she saw some of her own housemates picking them up. Why did Fred and George have to make her tenure as Prefect so bloody difficult?

Sequestering herself behind the counter, she picked up a box at random, eyeing it carefully just in case it decided to bite her or something equally as annoying. But, nothing happened, and, once she’d managed to ignore the silly pictures on the packaging, she found herself engrossed in the product’s description. “Well, that’s just sodding brilliant,” she muttered.

“Oh Granger, I didn’t know you cared,” came a voice from behind her, causing her to jump. Fred Weasley beamed down at her, the sight of his gaudy magenta robes making her want to retch. “Just for that, we’ll let you have it for free.”

Turning around to face him, her placed a hand on her hip. “And just what would I need with a Patented Daydream Charm?” she asked, the box still carefully clutched in her hand.

Fred’s smile widened and she realized then that this was what was referred to as a Cheshire Cat Grin. It unnerved her. “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Granger, especially with that mind of yours.”

Hermione let out a delicate sniff and discreetly slipped the box into her bag. “What do you have that would have more..practical application?”

*

How she had managed to be cajoled into slipping under Harry’s Invisibility Cloak and traipsing down into Knockturn Alley, she still wasn’t quite sure. All she could figure was that it involved a determined look on Harry’s face and the fact that she was shorter than both he and Ron. In the end, she made do with telling herself that she was simply there to make sure they didn’t do anything stupid. As always.

Knockturn Alley had always held a sort of allure that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She supposed it was the knowledge that lurked beneath the grime and grit of the questionable shops. Part of her wanted very much to slip inside and look through the dark tomes that she knew were lurking just beneath the Ministry’s nose. The other part of her her took pleasure in primly reminding her that such objects, books or otherwise, were dangerous and illegal. She found that she wanted to stuff that part of her in a hole and bury it.

Hands clutching onto Harry’s jumper, she kept her steps quiet and her steps short- mostly in an effort to evade Ron’s much longer strides. Their feet would be seen, she was just sure of it, but that possibility didn’t seem to stop any of them from continuing on down the dark and winding street.

A flash of white blond hair caught her eye. “Harry,” she hissed, and the boy in question came to an abrupt stop causing her to stumble into his back with Ron tumbling after. “That’s my heel, Ron!”

His apology was muffled, no doubt due to her hair and Harry shushing them both. 

Borgin and Burkes seemed to be the only shop in the alley that was visibly open. Pressing themselves as close to the front of the building as they dared, they struggled to listen. Her eyes followed Draco as he moved through the shop, easing around the cases and displays with such finesse that she knew he’d been inside several times. That prickling of curiosity began in the back of her mind once more as she found herself drawn into the various bric-a-brac. She wanted to know everything. What things did, why they were used, why they were banned. But that was a thirst that she knew would not be allowed to be slaked.

Attention drawn back to the boy they’d followed, she watched as his hands moved over the side of a large cabinet in the center of the room. There was a definite contrast between the color of his skin and the dark wood of the cabinet, it was stark and immediately distracting. How could a man’s hands be that elegant, she wondered and the thought shocked her. 

“I can’t hear what they’re saying, can you?” Harry asked in a whisper as he looked back at his friends. Hermione just shook her head where it rested against his shoulder blade. Once again she found herself wishing that she could read minds, that she could see inside the thoughts of Draco Malfoy and begin to make sense of them. The trouble was, that even if she could she wasn’t sure that she’d be able to understand. 

*

August 31, 1996

Her jaw clenched as she stared across the room, her copy of Advanced Rune Translation laying forgotten on her lap. To say that Harry Potter had been obsessed with Draco Malfoy over the past few weeks would be an understatement. Between him, Fleur, and the Weasley women she was certain that she was beginning to lose her mind. At this point, September first couldn’t come fast enough.

The suggestion that Malfoy was now a Death Eater only served to make Ron laugh uncontrollably, which she felt was a little forced, and make her consider chucking her book at the Boy Who Lived’s head. Hermione quickly talked herself out of that; it was a brand new book.

“What would You-Know-Who want with a sod like Malfoy?” Ron asked once he’d gotten himself under control. “Not like he’d do much good, not with his dad locked away in Azkaban. Be a waste of ink.”

Brow furrowed, she shot Ron a level look. “Really, Ronald.”

He held his hands up in defense. “What?”

“Look,” Harry said as he leaned forward, his hands beginning to gesticulate with every word. “He flinched in Madam Malkin’s when she tried to roll up his sleeve. His left sleeve. Don’t you remember? And that business in Borgin and Burkes? He showed Borgin something that scared him. It was the Dark Mark. Had to be.”

Ron glanced up at her then and she was certain that his look mirrored her own. It was a stretch, all of it was a stretch and neither of them was prepared to even admit that it might even be true. Things were becoming nasty, they all knew it, even her Muggle parents knew that something was happening. But somehow sitting in Fred and George’s old bedroom debating the fact that one of their classmates was a newly minted Death Eater was out of the realm of possibility. 

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Harry stood and stalked from the room. She didn’t move from her spot on the windowsill and Ron didn’t move from his place on the floor. Fingertips pressed into the pages of her book, Hermione stared at the empty doorway and it occurred to her then, even amidst all of the speculation, that they were no longer children.

*


	2. Chapter 2

Suggested listening: 'Life On Mars?' by David Bowie

*

September 2, 1996

The first day of term was nothing short of horrible and Hermione couldn’t help but think that that didn’t bode well for the rest of the year. It was potions that ruined it all. Potions and that damn book that Harry wouldn’t give up. She’d been so close, so bloody close, to getting that Draught of Living Death just right. But close wasn’t good enough and she’d found herself standing at the back of the classroom with her hair twice its normal volume and a dumbfounded expression on her face. Things like this didn’t happen, weren’t supposed to happen, to Hermione Granger. She was fairly certain that was a written rule somewhere.

Aside from all of that, the Amortentia had thrown her for a loop. Magic was tricky, that was something she’d learned early on, and it never ceased to surprise. Even still, while she’d been expecting one thing, she was presented with another. Parchment wasn’t surprising, neither was the clover. But the clove? That had come from, seemingly, out of nowhere. She dutifully filed it away, though, as she threw herself into the grip of competition.

Now she sat in the Great Hall, stabbing at a roasted potato as she tried to work out just where she’d gone wrong and, more importantly, just how that blasted book of Harry’s had gotten it so right. For a brief moment, she considered hitting the thing with an Incendio, but that idea was scrubbed as soon as it sprang to mind. There was no way that she could destroy a book, no matter what it held. The idea was sickening and she berated herself swiftly for even allowing her mind to conjure such a thing. Still, it didn’t keep her from staring daggers at the thing as it sat across from her, open as Harry read through it.

She wanted to say something, something harsh and biting to encapsulate her mood, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Instead, she popped a potato in her mouth and chewed it carefully as she tried to drown out the sounds of the students around her. Ron was making that incredibly difficult, however, and she found herself glaring at him as he shoveled forkful after forkful of food into his mouth until his cheeks puffed out almost grotesquely. She should have been used to it, she reasoned, after all, she’d been sitting at meals with him for the past six years. But, Merlin, was eating in such a fashion necessary? 

Suddenly, the rest of her roasted vegetables didn’t seem appealing in the slightest and she shoved her plate aside. Hands wrapped around her glass of pumpkin juice, Hermione just sat there, her shoulders hunched as her fingers drummed idly against the sides of the goblet. She could go on and head towards the Prefect meeting, but that would make her seem overeager for patrols and she found that she wasn’t in the mood to feel eager about much of anything. If anything she just wanted to retreat to Gryffindor tower and begin color coding her notes from the day and get a head start on her Ancient Runes homework. But she didn’t move, not even when pudding appeared on the table; it did nothing to rouse her dampened appetite.

There was always a sort of burning sensation that seemed to prick across the skin when one was being watched, or at least that’s how it felt to her. Pulling her attention away from the wood grain in the table, she looked up only to meet Draco Malfoy’s gaze. He didn’t look and away and neither did she. They’d been in and out of classes with each other all day, but this was the first time since that day in Madam Malkin’s that they’d really looked at one another. In any other year perhaps she would have shied away from the intensity of him, but now she didn’t. She didn’t even fidget. Instead, she merely cocked her head to the side, her wild curls sliding over her shoulder, and arched a brow. The corner of his mouth lifted slightly and she noted, with some surprise, that it wasn’t twisted up into its customary sneer. It was a good look for him, she thought then, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he would make the effort to keep it. Hermione wouldn’t hold her breath.

“Mione?” Harry’s voice pulled her from her stupor and she tore her gaze away from the blond across the room.

She let out a hum in response as she sipped her pumpkin juice, the glass cool against her lips.

“You haven’t eaten,” he pointed out, his black brows knit in concern behind the frames of his glasses.

“Rubbish,” Hermione replied with a sniff. “Just because I don’t shovel my food away like Ron doesn’t mean I haven’t eaten.”

Ron looked up at the mention of his name. “What?” he asked around a mouth full of treacle tart. 

“Honestly, Ronald. No one wants to see that,” she said, heaving a heavy sigh as Harry snickered. For a moment she considered reminding them how old they were but decided against it in the end. What good would it do?

Taking another sip of her juice, she glanced towards the Slytherin table once more. The seat Malfoy had been occupying was vacant and she found herself scanning the crowd for him. A flash of white blond hair caught her attention and she carefully turned, not trying to garner too much attention, and watched him walk out the great double doors as he lazily tossed an apple up in the air and caught it with effortless grace.

*

September 14, 1996

If she’d had any choice in the matter she would have been sequestered in the bowels of the library working on her Transfiguration essay. As it was she was sitting in the stands of the Quidditch pitch wrapped up in several layers with a warming charm cast over her knees. It had no right being this cold in September, she thought as she pulled her red and gold scarf up over her nose. So, she sat there watching as Harry sorted everyone out for drills and wished that she had at least brought a book with her.

Ron had been a strange shade of green since breakfast that morning and it was easy to chalk that particular pallor to nerves. She didn’t understand it. He’d been playing Quidditch with his siblings most likely since he could walk and, from her understanding, he was rather good. Confidence, she had noticed, was not one of Ronald’s strong suits. She didn’t even want to think about her own apparent lack in certain regards. 

The sun tried its best to peek out from behind the clouds and Hermione found herself stretching out like a cat towards the fleeting beams of warmth. Aside from the whooshing of the players flying by and the sound of beaters hitting bludgers, it was almost a relaxing environment. That was until Lavender Brown began screaming Ron’s name. She found herself sitting there staring at her dorm mate with a look of abject horror. Was that sort of sound really necessary at tryouts?

Still, the pretty blonde’s squawking seemed to be doing some good as Ron managed to deflect a quaffle. Brow arched, Hermione clapped her gloved hands and hoped she looked suitably impressed. Of course, that was when one Cormac McClaggen flew past on his way towards the opposite side of the pitch, pausing to blow her a kiss. That was certainly new, and she found herself feeling somewhere between confused and disgusted. She had once heard him referred to as a cocky son of a bitch in passing, and she could definitely see it.

She pushed the incident from her mind and didn’t even give a passing thought to the Confundis that she tossed in Cormac’s direction. The last thing they needed was an ego that large on their Quidditch team- Gryffindor tower would likely not survive that event. Besides, she reasoned with a delicate sniff, Ron could use the boost.

*

Today, it seemed, was the day of her being forced into doing things that she didn’t particularly want to do. Transfiguration was pushed aside in favor of a dinner party with Professor Slughorn, and that meant that she was forced to endure small talk, overly rich food, and McClaggen staring at her from across the table. Never mind the fact that as the Muggleborn she was the proverbial odd one out. Having to explain dentistry had been on the short list of things that had never crossed her mind as a conversation topic.

Now she found herself wandering the halls, letting herself have the Prefect privileges that she often denied herself. Returning to Gryffindor tower didn’t seem appealing, not when Harry was serving detention and Ron was in a mood. She also didn’t care to admit that she was avoiding Cormac like the plague. Arms wrapped around herself, she cast a small warming charm and quietly turned a corner, wondering if she would ever manage to get warm this term. Somehow, she doubted it.

“What are you doing out of bed, Granger?” Draco Malfoy’s drawling voice came from ahead of her and she stopped in her tracks. He leaned back against a stone pillar, his hands shoved into the pockets of his black trousers. How was it, she wondered, that someone so very well-bred could come across as an absolute rake without any effort whatsoever? She could only assume that it was an inborn skill.

Hermione shrugged. “It’s not curfew and patrols aren’t for a few hours,” she replied. She regarded him for a moment, part of her still very much wary of him even when there was no visible animosity coming from him. It was from too many years of being picked at and ridiculed, she knew that, but she still found herself inexplicably drawn to him. “What are you doing out here, Malfoy?”

He lifted his shoulders and his nose wrinkled slightly. “No reason,” he replied and she didn’t believe it for a second. “Am I in trouble?”

It occurred to her then that they were almost having a normal conversation and it was more than odd. The realization made her wary and she clasped her hands behind her back. Her wand was tucked away in the folds of her dress and was well within her grasp. “Depends. Have you done anything wrong?”

That little ghost of a smile tugged at his lips then and she found herself watching as a lock of pale blond hair fell in his eyes. She had the sudden urge to push it back. “No. Not yet at least, Granger.”

Hermione let out a little hum as she regarded him. He was teasing her, actually teasing her. This was a trap, surely it was. Thinking like that was foolish, she tried to reason with herself as she moved closer to him, stopping to position herself by an open window. Everyone had a motive, that was something she knew intrinsically, but not everyone meant to entrap. But then, what was so wrong with entrapment if one went willingly?

Welcome to my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

She allowed herself to be drawn in, to relax and let her arms remain visible, crossed beneath her chest. The hat had considered putting her in Slytherin. For a brief moment, it had even contemplated Ravenclaw; Hufflepuff was simply out of the question. In the end, it had been Gryffindor and she could only suppose that it was her own stubborn nature that had put her there. Even still, the crimson and gold that she’d found herself wrapped in couldn’t keep the cunning and craft at bay. How else would she have managed to keep herself and her friends alive year after year? She found that she didn’t want to think about that particular answer.

“Care to enlighten me then?” she asked, keeping her voice carefully light as she watched him. Not two weeks ago she’d stood in front of him while the word Mudblood fell from his lips without a second thought, and yet she couldn’t help but feel that that had been an entirely different person. “Just what sort of mischief are you considering getting up to?”

The corners of his mouth curled up into a grin. “Secrets, Granger. It’s meant to be a secret, so there is no way I can tell you is there?” he asked as he shifted towards her. 

It was funny how moonlight had a tendency to change the way people looked. For instance, it made Draco Malfoy appear even paler than he actually was, which was amazing in and of itself. It also seemed to highlight the fact that he’d lost all semblance of youth. Gone was the baby fat and in its place was the hard angles of a face that were more man than boy. So strange, she thought to herself as she stared up at him, to see him like this now. It was inevitable of course, but it was still enough to give her a small pang of regret. The question was: just what was she regretful of?

“No, I suppose not,” she agreed after a moment. Why press the issue, she asked herself. Picking battles were one thing that she was quickly learning how to do.

His eyes traveled over her, taking in the simple gray dress and black stockings in place of her normal, plain school uniform. She ignored the fact that his gaze lingered in certain areas; it was easy to continue on in her observations of him while he was distracted. There were shadows under his eyes and she couldn’t help but wonder what had been keeping him awake at night during the beginning of term.

“Enjoy your little dinner party?” Malfoy asked, his voice suddenly sullen.

Hermione lifted her shoulders, mirroring his shrug from moments ago. “About as much as I enjoy Quidditch.”

She expected him to smile, or let out a laugh. But she got neither. He simply nodded as he met her gaze again. The way he looked at her was piercing in its intensity, but she met it without flinching, her shoulders squared as her brow furrowed. There was something wrong. No. Not wrong. Off perhaps? Whatever it was she couldn’t help but think there was something just out of sight that she was missing.

“I need a partner for Advanced Transfiguration,” he said, the previous playfulness was gone. “I can’t understand what the bloody hell McGonagall is saying half the time.”

Her head cocked to the side, chin lifted, and she could feel the pins in her hair begin to dig uncomfortably into her scalp. “You sure you want to be seen with someone like me?”

For a moment he didn’t say anything and she found herself almost squirming under his scrutiny. Her fingertips pressed into her elbow as she picked at the knit material wrapped around her arms. Not for the first time did she wonder just how she managed to get herself into situations like this, situations that threw her off balance. Suck it up, she told herself, remember where that blasted hat almost put you.

“Your blood doesn’t dictate your mind, Granger. I thought you knew that,” he said at length and she couldn’t help but wonder if the expression on her face colored her as stupid. “We have a free period after Ancient Runes. Meet me in the library then.”

The tone of his voice held no room for argument and the thought of being ordered about by someone like Draco Malfoy made her bristle. Her mouth opened to give a clever retort, but he was already moving past her, his shoulder brushing hers. 

“The old history classroom,” she called after him, her curls already escaping from the pins that held them. “I doubt Madam Pince would appreciate us transfiguring her chairs and tables.”

Draco Malfoy turned and said nothing, but he gave her a single nod. Then he was gone and Hermione found herself standing in an empty hallway, her warming charm wearing off. It was only when she reached the portrait of the Fat Lady that she realized the scent of cloves was following her.

*

September 19, 1996

Somehow she’d allowed herself to think that when she turned seventeen some sort of tether would be cut. The truth was that she didn’t feel any different at all, not even with the knowledge that she was now allowed to do as she damn well pleased. Within reason. Of course what qualified as within reason was a debate in and of itself.

She refused to draw attention to the fact that she was older than her classmates, Time Turner theories aside. There was enough of a divide already, what was the point of deliberately making it wider? So, she ate her breakfast quietly and looked over the Arithmancy equations that she’d started for fun. She stopped herself mid chew and stared down at the parchment and its myriad of markings. Gods, she thought then, she really was a swot.

Putting down her quill, she turned her attention to her porridge. The cinnamon sugar had melted into soft swirls and she prodded it with her spoon. She wanted cake, really wanted cake- sugar content be damned. Maybe she’d ask Dobby for a piece later, though the thought of imposing willfully on a house elf still rankled her.

When she looked up Malfoy was watching her again, his fork and knife poised in his hands as he carefully cut up his roasted tomatoes. He didn’t dribble any juice on his chin, she noted, and he chewed quietly with his mouth blessedly closed. If only her friends were as courteous. But then, what was Malfoy? Friend seemed like an overreach and acquaintance wasn’t close at all. 

Every free period after Ancient Runes was spent with him in an abandoned classroom. Inanimate objects were transformed into various other inanimate objects and back again. The fact that he was utterly brilliant surprised her, which, in hindsight, was incredibly stupid. She’d known that he was just barely behind her in their year, but seeing him work in a one on one capacity was nothing short of eye-opening. It was almost like her dirty little secret, working with him behind Harry and Ron’s back, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. This was something that was wholly hers, even if it was with Malfoy.

He continued to watch her, his eyes sharp as they peered out at her from red-rimmed lids. The fact that he wasn’t sleeping, or at least wasn’t sleeping well, had not escaped her notice though she had yet to bring it up in conversation. How did one even go about addressing such a thing to someone who wasn’t quite a friend? It wasn’t as though there was a book that covered that particular topic, much to her chagrin. Maybe when she figured out what would be the proper course of action she’d write one herself. That was sure to be a bestseller, she thought ruefully.

Malfoy arched a fair brow as he stared at her and she gave an almost indiscernible shake of her head. She found herself wishing once more that she could read his mind. But, the potential of what she might find frightened her. What she would find in anyone’s mind would frighten her, she was sure, especially when those thoughts concerned her. Not for the first time did she wish she could be someone else, anyone else. Someone far removed from Hermione Granger.

*

The fact that neither Ron nor Harry had said anything about her birthday wasn’t outside the realm of normality. It didn’t keep her from hurting, however, especially knowing that her parents hadn’t sent her anything by owl. Avian mail was something that they just weren’t comfortable with, and she took it in stride.

She was early. They had taken to leaving Ancient Runes in opposite directions as a stupid precaution. Merlin forbid that they were seen entering an empty classroom together. The fallout from that would be nothing short of catastrophic. So, she dropped her bag and settled down near the window, the few candles in the room flickering to life with a twist of her wrist. 

The door opening and closing drew her attention and she dutifully looked up. Draco Malfoy could make an unkempt appearance look like something expensive and artful. His tie hung loosely around his neck, white oxford shirt untucked, and his jacket unbuttoned. Still, it was odd seeing him like this as Malfoys, in general, were always impeccable dressers. But, she didn’t say anything, especially knowing that she looked like a mess with one of Harry’s jumpers hanging around her slender frame like a shroud down nearly to her knees.

“Have you started on the essay yet?” he asked by way of greeting, his bag joining hers on the floor as he leaned back against the window sill.

Hermione shook up her head. “I’ve made notes but I can’t bring myself to start the draft yet. I’m convinced that McGonagall is trying to kill us and it’s still first of term,” she said with a halfhearted laugh. 

Never in a million years would she have thought that Draco Malfoy would be easy to talk to, yet there she stood in an empty classroom staring up at him as she bitched about a class. He didn’t roll his eyes at her or brush her off as Harry and Ron would have done before sliding over their Charms work to check. In its own weird way, it was a breath of fresh air.

Draco let out a hum as he tapped the tip of one long, slender finger against the window pane. “I suppose we can work on that then, at least before the practical work. Bringing in Alchemical symbols has thrown me a bit,” he admitted, his eyes cutting to the side to stare down at her. “Snape expects us to be partnered up for Defence. Will Potty and Weasel pitch a fit if I ask you first? Please say they will.”

A wry smile curled over her lips. “You know they will, ferret,” Hermione replied, her voice deliberately light. She fell quiet then, her fingertips pulling at the hem of her jumper. “Why are you doing this?”

He regarded her for a moment, his head tilted back against the gray stone. “Doing what, Granger?”

“This,” she motioned between them, “Working with me. Not calling me a Mudblood. Six bloody years and only now you’re being civil. I want to know why.”

That little smile of his pulled at the corners of his mouth and he bent down. Being eye level with him was disconcerting, but she squared her shoulders and stood her ground. In the past, she’d always viewed Draco Malfoy just being full of shit, all bluster, and little substance. It was a stupid stance, she knew that now, but there was something about the way he looked at her now that was almost intimidating as if he was looking into her soul. Her eyes widened.

“Get out of my head,” she said, her voice almost a hiss. “Get out of my head and answer the fucking question.”

He laughed. The sound was rich and full and jarring as she glared up at him. “You weren’t supposed to feel that.”

“And I was under the impression that delving into someone’s mind without permission was rude.”

“Yet you want to look into my mind all the time. What do you think you’ll see, Granger? What would you look for?”

Hermione stepped back from him, her foot catching on the strap of her bag before she kicked it out of the way. “I want to understand you,” she replied, she was shocked by the truth of the statement. 

Reaching out, he grabbed hold of one of her curls, letting it wrap around his finger as he stood to his full height. The action made her shiver and she wrapped her arms tightly around herself, and she wanted to make herself small and hide away. 

“No, you don’t, Hermione. You don’t want to see the things in my head. I don’t want anyone to see the things in my head,” he said, his voice low and yet reverberating through the room. “I told you, blood doesn’t dictate the mind. I find myself regretting how I’ve treated you, how I’ve disregarded that intellect of yours.”

She let herself sag as he released his hold on her hair, the coil bouncing back into place. “You just want to use me. I’m a means to an end for you. Better grades for the Malfoy scion,” she said, her voice hard as she glared up at him from beneath furrowed brows.

Draco let out a snort. “Don’t dare lump me in with those twats you insist on keeping company with,” he said, that familiar sneer spreading over his features. It was odd how much she’d missed it. “We all want something. Even you. You didn’t have to agree to work with me, to be here in this room with me. What do you want, Hermione?”

Swallowing thickly, she turned and pressed her forehead against the wall behind her, the stone cool against her skin, her eyes screwed shut. “I want to learn. I need to learn. I want to see what’s in your mind, to protect my own,” she replied, her voice shaking.

There was no hesitation in his response: “Done. Happy birthday, Hermione.”

*


End file.
